


One last time & One good story

by kickassdemjin, specialdestiny



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Slow Burn, War time AU, deals with themes of ptsd, tommy shelby vs comphet syndrome
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-28
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2020-07-23 15:30:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20010604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kickassdemjin/pseuds/kickassdemjin, https://archiveofourown.org/users/specialdestiny/pseuds/specialdestiny
Summary: Two strangers in a war neither believes in.Two strangers brought together by chance.A spark hot enough to ignite a flame,but will it catch?





	1. A Tale of Two Men

**Author's Note:**

> This is a collaborative fic! the parts of Alfie were penned by specialdestiny and the parts of Tommy were penned by kickassdemjin. There are some instances of war-time slang, (for instance, hun = a slang term for German forces). We will try to denote when these are used.

It was well known among the soldiers that there were exactly two rules when it came to Captain Solomons. One being that there was to never be any comments in regards to the food. You took what you were served, you ate it, and you liked it. Criticisms, smart remarks or funny ideas were met with a temper so fucking biblical that those who made the mistake never did so twice. The second rule was you never, ever, fucking asked for more. There was a war on, and rations were tight as it were -- no special cases, no sob stories -- no second helpings. Period.

You’d have thought those two rules were simple enough, yeah? That it wouldn’t bear repeating over and over to the men who came through his line, each holding a dented bowl or oxidized tray, but these fuckin’ little wankers just couldn’t seem to get it through their thick fuckin’ skulls that the rules were permanent. The apron tied around Alfie’s waist was stained -- both with flecks of food, grime and blood, and nobody had ever been bold enough to inquire as to where from the blood had come. So maybe they were a little less stupid than he gave them credit for, Alfie reasoned, but not by much.

The pot before him was massive, propped up above a fire and simmering up an aroma that wasn’t quite palatable, but it was the best any of them could hope for in the current circumstances. Wiping away sweat from his brow with a towel which he returned to his shoulder, his bushy eyebrows knitted together as he gave the steaming pot a stir. It was a shit draw, but a might better than bein’ out there on the front lines, dodgin’ bullets and sidestepping mines, he thought. Besides, who else was gonna see that these handsome and strapping young men got a nice, kosher meal morning, noon and night if not him? 

It wasn’t so bad. He was damn good at it, when he had the right time and ingredients. Out here he had to make do far more than he’d like, but a man’s duty was to his country and if Alfie Solomons’ duty to his was feeding the soldiers, then he’d damn well do it better than any other. 

“HEY!” He shouted suddenly, his voice booming as his wild, almost feral stare caught a young man with his hand clasped around a roll. The looming threat of actual fucking death seemed real enough for the boy to drop the bread and try to flee, but Alfie’s voice boomed again, “Oi!” and for some reason the soldier froze in place, paralyzed by his fear of the cook.

Rounding the little makeshift kitchen, which was little more than a pot and a few inches of counter space sat atop a metal frame with two wheels for mobility, Alfie approached the man (more like a boy from the looks of him,) and wiped his hands clean on the dingy towel that never seemed to leave his shoulder. “You’re a soldier, yeah? You can fuckin’ understand English, mate?” His voice was calm -- too calm. The beads of sweat on the soldier’s brow were as big as raindrops as he shook his head silently. Alfie, being unsatisfied, continued to approach with the slow lazy gait of a predator that knew it had no need to chase down its prey. The soldier was trembling, practically on the verge of pissing himself as Alfie rounded him and stood toe to toe.

Despite the man he called captain being a good four inches shorter, he seemed like a giant -- his presence demanded respect. Demanded fear. The wildness in his eyes amplified as he searched to catch and hold the gaze of the would-be-thief. He had t’make sure this sort of behavior wasn’t tolerated in his fuckin’ company. That nobody, but nobody, thought they could get away with fuckin’ around in his kitchen. 

“Not one damned soul in this encampment doesn’t know my fuckin’ rules. No seconds, and no special treatment,” he spoke clinically repeating the rules he must’ve said a thousand times. “You think you’re special?” he asked, voice still deathly calm. The boy shook his head frantically, mumbling a sound that might have been “nuh-uh” had he the courage to enunciate it. Alfie nodded, a faint smile ghosting over his lips. “You think you’re worth more than anyone of them? You some kinda soldier messiah who ought ta’be given more food than the next man, is that it?” He asked, as if leading the boy to his own demise. He was, of course, met with emphatic and terrified shaking of the head. “Yeah -- see? You’re a clever boy. You know that no man’s worth more than another. You know that if you take more bread than your brothers over there, then they don’t get to eat. And when one man don’t eat, he can’t fight. And if our men can’t fight then we lose the bloody fuckin’ war, yeah?” 

To watch the scene from afar was almost painful. The trembling culprit and his sadistic captor -- like a cat toying with his catch before mutilating it. The tension was palpable, so thick a blunt butter knife could have sliced it clean through. “Yeah.” Alfie said, and the last shred of his calm seemed to vanish as his face contorted into something all together different. His ghost of a smile turned into a snarl and his hand flew out, catching the boy in the temple. There was a faint crack and the man screamed, scrambling to get away. Alfie caught him by the fabric of his jacket and reeled him back, only to deliver two more blows; one, a knee to the man’s gut, doubling him over and the other a swift crack to his nose. Blood spurted out and the man hit the ground, crying out in agony.

Wiping his hands off again, Alfie stalked back towards his pot. “Back to work, all of you,” he called back, the calmness fully returned. The other men who were nearby all murmured to one another, none brave enough to go to the side of the wailing man just yet. Soon, there would be a medic who would usher him away to be treated and if the damn fool was lucky, maybe he’d even be sent far away from the trenches.

If that were the case, he’d have a lot to thank Alfie for, thought the man as he returned to stirring his slosh.

* * *

The man focused on the dirt under his nails as if it was the only thing keeping him sane in the trapping dark, low lights flickering to reflect the features of his face, sunk in and tired. Dig -- just dig, that was what he did day in and day out until he couldn’t tell neither himself from the mud and night from day. The tips of his fingers burnt; sweat rolled down his back. Sometimes he had to put his shovel aside to dig with his fingers, removing roots of dead trees, bombed apart a few feet above them. 

This war left its marks on everyone, including nature. The dust stung in his nose and throat, his eyes watered. He couldn’t be sure that his brothers were still alive, couldn’t even be sure that the fuckin’ soldier who had dragged him up and out of the tunnel when he got the shakes two weeks ago hadn’t just been shot by some hun. It felt numbing.

He had been down here for what must have been hours, makeshift brothers crawling behind him to steady the walls and prevent all of them from suffocating like miserable fuckin’ worms, down in the dirt. Another barrier of pure mud broken down, he took the mine deeper into dark with him, silence so deafening he couldn’t even hear the arms being used frequently above them. He hated this to a point where he nearly wanted the enemy tunnelers to just end their collective misery. 

Regardless, he pushed on, somehow trusting his tired eyes to not blow their fuckin’ arms off due to some stupid mistake. Behind him, a younger tunneller named Edward began coughing, breaking out in shakes.  
“Shit -- Freddie, get him out of here quick,” Thomas shouted, looking back. He was fully aware that this would cause a greater risk. Freddie, too, made sure the walls wouldn’t break down over their godforsaken heads. 

The small space suddenly turned loud, comrades shouting instructions at one another. Panic spread through the thick air, damp and painful, until Tommy bellowed.  
“Stop fuckin’ panicking, get him out instead before he completely loses his shit down here!” The space turned quieter almost instantly, some snapping out of their momentary haze before moving aside to help, Freddie dragging the boy back towards the entrance. 

“God knows we’ve got enough shit on our hands,” the brunet mumbled into the thin scarf he had used to cover his nose and mouth, turning back towards his tasks. Just months earlier he had been forced to accept that it wasn’t always smart to jump to help-- as the first tunneller, digging at the front, it was not a good idea to help a lad getting the shakes feet behind him. He was needed right where he was, crawling all the way back took up too much time and caused complications. He had been taught this with a hit to the head by his superior. 

Looking back at the dirt under his fingernails, he felt he had to swallow down the bile rising in his throat. There were boys dying out there, 12, 14. He knew that, they all knew that. Their superiors knew that, every fuckin’ politician out there knew that, and yet-- they were down here, fighting tooth and nail for their country. These politicians were adults, most of them older than him-- if they had these issues why did they deem it necessary to hold wars on the backs of their people? 

It was then that Thomas learned that the world was a sad, ugly, disappointing place. He missed his brothers, but he was terrified of how they would be after the war, when they returned home. If they returned home. A ball of disgust and sadness formed in his throat, sourly accompanying the dust that had settled there like a parasite seeking to swallow him from within. 

Yet he didn’t properly think, he only dug, dragged the mine deep into the dark with him. He ached, but his soul felt numb. It had been mere months since he had come here; and there was no end in sight. He was painfully aware that he had long lost himself in the dirt, his only purpose appeared to be right here, in a place right on the brink of death, practically served on a silver platter like some twisted meal, underground. 

If he was being honest with himself, he was filled with fear. It felt like his bones were tightening with every shovel of dirt pushed aside, with every stone placed besides him. The silence, akin to a graveyard, barely helped. They were forced to listen for enemy tunnelers, huns that would try to kill them. Not that they wouldn't do the same to them; there was a chance the tunnelers in the opposing side were just as tired, just as terrified, just as traumatized. There could be a boy dying on the other side now, poisoned from the foul air in the shafts. 

With that, his speed picked up, although his body pulsed with pain, heart thrumming in a quiet, numbing panic. It felt like a race against time, but he quickly decided: He would be damned if he didn't fuckin' win.


	2. WAR:HELL

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two ships that ought to have passed one another in the night are brought together by a storm that sent them careening into one another's waters. A Tragedy that will haunt them both for years to come.

It felt like a feverish blur, to hear a distant shout coming from the tunnel entrance. There must have been about fifteen of them in the tunnel now; him remaining at the very front and others in the back to keep communication with the base camp. A godforsaken blur it was, to feel the bone-deep rattle of the mine exploding what felt like mere feet on their right side, shaking the walls around them and making crumbs of dirt fall down to cover Thomas’ scalp. 

“RETREAT NOW!” A tunneler shouted from far behind him, and the small space broke out in panic once more, the enemies would hear them, would stick their guns through the muddy walls, blindly attempting to shoot whatever was on the other side. Thomas’ heart felt like it would explode, akin to the huns’ mine next to their sorry fuckin’ heads, crawling through the inescapable shaft. There were only two ways to go, both of which could be absolutely deadly. 

George, a man older than him, crawling about two men in front of himself, hit the ground, blood leaking from his mouth like out of some depraved, obscene fountain. Danny, who was in front of him now, shrieked. “MAN DOWN!” Thomas shouted, to save him the deed, he would be traumatized enough. The call echoed through the darkness now, the gaslight having been shot to bits and pieces. It was like a disturbed chant that burnt itself into Thomas’ skin. 

Terrified men, even in tiny spaces, were fast. Tommy closed his eyes to save himself the image of crawling over a dead man, as if the feeling of a cracking rib cage beneath him wasn’t enough. A bullet shot through the mud right next to his hand, making him collapse out of panic.   
“Fuck ---- FUCK!” he yelled, scrambling to get up, hitting his head on the tunnel’s ceiling. Danny looked back in panic, had he lost another brother? 

Thomas only moved quicker, shoving at Danny’s back to make him go faster, to escape the looming death. Two other bullets finished other men, and the brunet himself thought they’d shoot him like a mole disrupting the nice image of the garden’s lawn.   
The shouts returned, notifying the soldiers guarding the tunnel entrance of their count. Fifteen, now they were twelve. 

If he had been feeling rather unproductive, he realized how insanely long this fuckin’ passage was, now. They were slower than they should be, men dying left and right, images that would never be forgotten embedded into their sorry skulls now like a curse. And a godforsaken curse it was. The guns and even knives sticking through the walls from their right side doubled now and Thomas cursed himself for not digging it broadly enough, continuing to shove at Danny’s back, practically pushing him face first into the mud to get him, at least him, the good man, out of there alive. 

Moments later, Thomas saw another man collapse, and he had lost count of their deaths. “Tommy, brother, Tommy, I doubt we’ll make it,” Danny howled as he moved faster, entire body heaving from exhaustion. Before he could reply, the man saw two guns sticking through the wall, quickly moving to drag Danny backwards with him. Danny shouted and the brunet closed his eyes. When Whizz-Bang looked at the bullets put holes through his comrades’ brains, a muddy hand moved up to cover his mouth. Hush now, quick, we are dead as rabbits shot by a hunter. 

The bald-shaven man nodded, closing his eyes with a panicked shudder before moving to carry on their way with Thomas behind him. It worked, and as bad as it was, only the men in front of them got hit now, their opponents following them in the parallel crawling space. Freddie got out, and only one man he couldn’t name in his state of panic in front of them survived, the shouting and shooting upstairs got louder. Two soldiers up there heaved them out of the hole, faces forming deep frowns at the amount that had gotten into the tunnel and the sad amount that had gotten out.

The light felt utterly blinding when he stumbled out of the tight passage, holding onto the man with cramping arms, eyes as if they were on fire from the amount of dust, mud, sweat and even blood in them. They were quickly ushered into a trench, moving to get out of harm’s way, even though they stood between trees, both fallen and still standing.

* * *

Carnage. That’s all it fucking was, pure and ungodly carnage. Alfie wasn’t a man unused to violence but even he was struck by the sheer banality of it. Limbs lay scattered about, shouts and screams and artillery fire echoed against his pounding ears. He heard wailing and he heard frantic prayers coming up from all around him, men and boys alike terrified for their lives as they fought against the monster in the darkness. 

Enemy fire was one thing, but it was the bombs. The sodding mines that did the real damage. He was pressed against his kitchen or the sad sorry excuse for one he rarely left, thankful for the thick iron of the pot that had shielded him from shrapnel. His heart raced to a point where he wasn’t certain that it wouldn’t just give out on him here and now. The concussive blasts still rang in his ears even as he scrabbled to his knees and peered over the top of the station. Despite his rank, it was his men out there giving up their lives and relaying strategies between them, not him. He was here, in relative safety and comfort by comparison. There’d once been a man or two bold enough to question his station as their provider while maintaining a rank like captain. Those men mysteriously found themselves without tongues soon after. But now he was faced with the question of if he truly deserved the honor of his rank at all.

Fires burned here and there, and the bright flashes of gunfire lit up both sides of the trenches. It was mesmerizing in a way, almost hypnotic -- but the tug of a hand against his apron pulled the man back to reality. Turning around, he was stunned to see a fallen soldier, he couldn’t have been more than eighteen, bloodsoaked and missing both his legs. Alfie could only gawk in suspended horror watching how the thing which was once a man dragged itself nearer, begging for help in moans and groans. 

He didn’t know much what to do, it seemed pointless to save the boy’s life considering what he had to look forward to, but Alfie was still a man with some fucking honor, and he’d be damned if he let it sully now. With clumsy hands he pulled the boy into the scant shelter of his cook station, ripping the tie from his apron without a thought. It was a lousy excuse for a tourniquet, he realized, but if he didn’t stop the bleeding the boy’d die within the hour anyhow. With some careful work he managed to get the thin tie to bind both stumps of legs together, tightly as his bodily strength would allow, and it seemed to stay the bleeding for now. “You’re gonna be alright, boy -- “ he said, heart sinking as he saw no clarity in the man’s foggy eyes. “You did well, soldier,” Alfie added more softly, pressing a kiss to the forehead of his dying man, knowing it’d be the last thing the boy likely heard. Giving the boy a squeeze to his shoulder, Alfie pushed to his feet and sprinted to the left where there were more shouts. 

A hand rose to press against his nose and mouth as he came upon the worst of the carnage. There were more casualties than he’d guessed -- by about two dozen or so. Even fresh the stench was almost intolerable -- burnt flesh and blood soaked mud, had there been even a single thing in his stomach he would’ve wretched it up on the spot. His heart thundered and ached at once. Nothing could have prevented this, but the burden of responsibility for these men still gnawed at him, like a starved dog gnawed a carcass on the streets -- quivering and feral, the guilt was. 

Shouts and commands blurred into a singular cacophony of sound, dizzying the man who stumbled over a dead form and cursed to himself. Moving past the chaos, ordering the few abled body men he passed by to go and help those still living and sort them from the dead, he pressed through the darkness with a singular goal. He could have stopped and helped them move the men, but with his knee being what it was he didn’t know how he’d be of any use anyhow.

After a short walk, he found what he’d hoped to find unscathed -- but as usual, was left fucking disappointed.Their cache of supplies all but obliterated. Weeks worth of rations, both collected and shipped in months ago, at which time he’d spent painstaking hours trying to portion the meager supplies so that they’d never be at risk of hunger, were reduced to char and ash. Grimly, he couldn't help but think the loss of life was the only thing that would keep them from certain starvation. Less mouths, less food - a voice sing-songed manically in his mind. 

His still standing kitchen had a pot full of sludge-like stew that had been meant for the evening supper, and beyond that he had enough scraps laying about where he worked to force a breakfast out. Beyond that? May God have mercy on them all. After this business he didn’t expect the land itself would have much to offer at all, if anything.

Wiping the sweat from his brow, be it from the heat of the fires or the stress he was desperately trying to repress, Alfie kicked around in the debris, bending to life a few burnt items that were salvageable. Didn’t much matter how it tasted out here. Only that something went into the belly so it could later be shat out. 

He wasn’t a soldier. Too old, too fat one man had said of him, though he was scarcely anything of the sort -- but he didn’t much mind not seeing the combat. His body wasn’t all that it could be, but his mind was sharp. Real sharp. Sharp enough to be granted a Captain’s title, and cooking? That he could do. He knew better than to let the grandeur of a title get in his way. The soldiers didn’t eat, the soldiers didn’t fight. He was just as important as them who pulled the triggers. Just because he sat over a boiling vat of shit all day instead of pumping lead into enemy troops didn’t make him any less of a man.

With an armload of black and unidentifiable food stuffs, Alfie returned to his cook station. It was as if the horrors around him had faded away leaving him comfortably within the shelter of a clean shock. He mumbled an old song to himself as he set the items down, feet bumping into the boy he’d left here, completely unwilling to glance down and see what he knew to be true: the soldier was already dead. 

He was going to stand here and he was going to get the fire going once more and he was going to fucking cook a meal. Because it’s what he was here for. This was no place for hope or happiness, it was as good as the gates of hell itself, he thought, as he mindlessly stirred through the sludge. There’d be more than enough tonight, another voice whispered, and he chastised it away. 

Stir. Stir. Stir. His arms fucking ached, he thought to himself, though he barely registered it -- how could he when something new caught his eye? There, not twenty feet away against the stark inky blackness of the French sky, he saw it. Men, figures of them at least, crawling up from the earth like hellspawn, black as the night and lean as wights. “Fuck me,” Alfie whispered to himself, frantically looking from the emerging diggers to the men who stood off to his left.

“Oi!” He hollered, waving an arm until someone glanced his way, face so pale it almost glowed in the darkness. Pointing towards the tunnelers, Alfie shouted again “Get those men some fucking help!” He couldn’t imagine how any one of them had survived the blast or the subsequent attack, they must’ve been lucky he mused, or God was feeling merciful. But this wasn’t a place for mercy or grace or anything so righteous. 

This was the mouth of hell, and each and every fucking last one of them was just waiting for their turn to tumble into the fiery depths.

* * *

The mud-covered soldier duly noted a distant shouting, that they were to be helped, however, he found himself unable to react, following the ones that were left into a trench that was mostly empty. 

The tunneler instantly slid down to sit, legs stretching out and muscles aching to a near unbearable point. As his hazy mind cleared up the tiniest bit, the cold night air filling his lungs like medicine, his arms and legs cramped, fingers twitching. Thomas closed his eyes, he was used to this. These cramps occurred when they got to move around freely, when their body realized that there were different positions to be in than a crawling one, or resting on his tummy. 

With a heaving chest he looked around him, to see who was still with him. Head propped up against his aching shoulder laid Danny, eyes open and staring into nothing. A few feet away he hoped to recognize Freddie, sprawled on his back with all four limbs stretched away from himself. Next to Freddie sat the only other man-- Joseph, he realized-- mostly unharmed.

Thomas didn't say anything, for there were no words that could offer comfort in a time like this, and there was not a chance he would be able to string together a phrase right now. The burn in his throat and nose eased up when he carried on breathing at least somewhat clean air; his body grateful for this, even when death and smoke still lay in the air. He preferred the smell of gun powder over that of wet mud and sweat. It felt alive and free, instead of ensnaring him in a space that he would call hell's back entrance. 

Time passed, and then a while longer, until a medic jumped into the trench, looking at them. His face contorted into a bad frown almost instantly, his brighter uniform stained by blood, his lower arms covered in dirt and body fluids. Tommy didn't care, no, not when he saw him carry two big buckets of water. Clean, cold, essential. 

Wanting to follow him when the medic moved to leave once more, he was pushed back by a now slightly more conscious Danny Whizz-Bang. "Don't--" The man croaked out, nostrils flaring like those of an exhausted horse-- strong, yet so very tired and even broken. "He… will come back," he spoke, swallowing on the dryness in his throat, like sand. 

His inability to speak was as unpleasant as the bits of dirt on his teeth, crunching and nerve-wrecking. His head was empty, he just wanted water-- firstly to spit out the mud and secondly to drink. The Shelby groaned and allowed himself to slip lower, into a laying position. Danny had been right, not ten minutes later, the medic returned: with two big thermal blankets, sponges, and cups. 

He watched with tired eyes as the medic began cleaning their faces, necks and hands of dirt, water and soap plenty. The man faintly thought of getting his hair washed by his mother when he was a child, the water was still cold but her hands were soft, seeking to clean because she loved him, not because he had to function for the war. 

Freddie appeared to be the most conscious one out of them, slowly coming to sit up. "It is a bloody butchery up there, isn't it?" He inquired, all of them listening to the artillery shooting turning quieter and more distant, leaving behind smoke and broken souls. 

Throwing the sponge aside when he was done, the medic sighed. He swept his black hair out of his face when he spoke in a somewhat decent English, although a french accent snuck into his speech. "It is. I saw a man walk around with his guts in his own hands, staring at them as if they were something he liked that broke, like the cup you got from your mum. He looked so confused," the ally explained, and Thomas winced at the image of it. 

Filling the four cups he had brought with the clean water, he handed one to each of them. The bookmaker used it to clean his mouth out, first, sighing and resting his head against the muddy wall of the trench as if it was any relief in this living hell.   
God had spared them, surely, but Thomas wasn't sure that life was what he desired anymore. 

Handing him more water, the tunneler finally chugged it down, the cold liquid like salvation. Compared to his state about half an hour ago, he felt somewhat newborn now, but he was reborn into a different kind of shithole. 

The medic moved to drape the thermal blankets over each of them, one for Freddie and Joseph and one for Thomas and Danny. "I know you've just come out of a place that is very hot," he explained, tucking it properly around them, "but if you don't have them, you will freeze to death." He finished, moving to sit down. He observed them, now, how their eyes grew heavier. They were still in shock, traumatized, Thomas could swear he heard the cracking of bones underneath his knees, but he was tired. They were all tired. 

"Sleep now, tunnelers, we need you," said the french ally as he watched them drift off-- Freddie at first, then Thomas. Joseph fell asleep next, and Danny-- he took some time before he fell into the bittersweet embrace of sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter our boys meet ! how will it go?


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The spark ignites.

By the pall cast of pre-dawn’s murky light, Alfie Solomons could see just how badly they’d really been struck. There was no place to bury the dead, but soldiers had worked through the night to tirelessly move the corpses and dismembered limbs to a single trench -- laid out in neat little rows like dolls to be inspected and documented like they were little more than cattle. By this light it was impossible to tell the English from the French, and in some cases the living from the dead. 

Alfie himself felt half dead, he’d been up on his feet for hours, feeding those who found the appetite for it, and then he himself could find no rest. Sleep had never been a friend to him, even less so now. He might’ve squeezed an hour or so more rest out of the morning but he knew there wasn’t a point. Wasn’t a point to any of this anymore, he reasoned grimly, noting how much thinner the unit was. How were they supposed to win a war when their soldiers could be cut down in a single blow like they were chaff and not men?

Last night’s sludge was still in his pot, and had a faint stench to it. With a fire lit, and a few ladles of water to thin it out, he deemed it palatable enough to keep a man from dying of starvation. Whether or not it tasted like anything other than horseshit was left to be seen. He found a half basket of stale, hard bread and began ripping it into smaller chunks. Not much, but every last bit helped. It’d soak up the stew and it’d fill a belly. It’d do its job. Just like he was doing his. 

Though he was unaware of the shell-shock he still wore loosely around his shoulders like a tallit for sabbath morning, he moved around with a sobriety uncommon for a man of his temperament. There was a mercy and compassion in his eyes today that would not be there much longer, but for now, for this day -- it lingered. The stew he had would spoil by mid-day so he filled each bowl that came through his line to the brim, and handed a roughly torn hunk of dry and cracking stale bread into the hands of the weary men. 

We’re gonna fucking die out here, Alfie thought to himself, a permanent frown creasing between his eyes. He hadn’t considered himself dying at war, and only God knew how much disdain he held for the thought of dying in fucking France of all places, but one more attack like last night and he wasn’t sure if he’d even want to live on. A man thought he was wise, thought he knew the worst things life could offer -- then he saw a fuckin’ display like that… Glancing towards where the earth was still crimson stained, despite being raked of the bodies, and he shuddered. 

Only a few men passed by him in the first hour or so, many still slept, some wept where they laid against the cold and uninviting ground. Others seemed too vacant to even acknowledge their hunger, and moved about like mindless soulless shells of men and boys. It was right fucking heartbreaking, it was. Not that he cared to know any of their individual pity-inducing stories, but there wasn’t any just cause for men to be looking so haunted. None at all. 

This war was no work of God. Only man and the devil himself could be responsible for such a thing. Godless. He thought with a harumph. Fucking Godless.

* * *

The gray sky, bright and calm, shone down on them -- rousing Thomas from his sleep. He must have slept for what felt like an eternity, but he didn't feel rested. His uniform, gritty, stuck to his back like a second skin, sweat pearling on his forehead from the haunting nightmares that had troubled his mind what felt like moments ago. The world around him felt bleaker, sadder, emptier. Both Danny and Freddie were not awake yet, their expressions dark even in their sleep. The brunet shook his head as he got up, the ache in his back due to the unhealthy sleeping position no comparison to the imprints left on his soul like a deep scar --- unforgettable. 

Fully aware of his somewhat weak, yet active state, Thomas reached up to the trenches' edge to climb it. He wanted to walk, wanted to move and breathe, wanted to inspect their camp. Smoke still rose all around them, but there was no gunfire, now. It felt calm, but the knowledge that this wasn't the end lay in the air like poisonous gas. It would not be long until the artillery shooting picked up again, making boys and men alike die like fuckin' pigs down in the dirt. 

After a moment, he managed to heave himself up onto the passage's edge, sitting there for a moment, overlooking his friends and the dead piling up in neighboring trenches. It was obscure to look at, to see his friends rest there, asleep, while the others were just corpses, lifeless. Killed off, one after the other. This war had lost all soul and hope. If he left England somewhat enthusiastic and seeking to serve his country with pride, he had long lost hope. All he wanted was to survive now. There would be mothers and fathers mourning their sons, sisters mourning their brothers and fathers, wives now widows. The thought made his stomach turn, made his chest ache deep within for everyone involved in this unholy bloodbath.

At the thought of it, he rubbed his hands, dirty again, against his face. As if it drove the seemingly incurable sadness out of him. Instead, it dirtied him again, showing him his place. He had been stupid to hope, it was a thing best forgotten, left down in the tunnels like his happiness. All he could do was dig, later again, perhaps they had to make a new tunnel, who knew that. It felt numbing. Something he did like a machine, without passion, without wanting to but having no choice but to carry on so he did, without complaint. It wasn't his war, he didn't hate the huns, hell, they weren't at fault for what their superiors decided. All of them, collectively, were simply obeying orders. He felt like a shell of a man, nothing more.

Moving to stand up, Thomas picked up a metal bowl from the ground. It seemed empty save for dirt and metal splinters. Bitterly, he had to associate it with himself; empty except for some muck and some fuckin' pieces of tin. Stumbling over a pile of soil that must have formed there during the collision, Thomas suddenly felt like weeping. Crying like a child in the corner, rolled into a pile of sorry meat like that's all that he was. It made his lips quiver; he had lost more comrades than ever before, had seen and heard things he shouldn't, not ever. He wanted to punch those images right out of his skull, as if that would change his situation. Looking up at the gray sky once more, he let out a sob. 

Haunting was the sound of George's rib cage breaking to bits underneath his weight, like some obscure, rhythmic melody that fogged his mind with sadness and trauma. Perhaps he would mourn him, later, allow himself to grief and honor his services, he thought, wiping the brimming tears away with his gault-stained thumb. Sucking in the cold, dry air of the camp, polluted with dust, gunpowder and the smell of decomposing as well as burnt flesh, he turned around to look for a field kitchen. His body came first, now. He had to survive. 

It didn't matter to him, if he would be served dirt mixed with water then that was what he would eat until his bowels burst like he himself was a walking fuckin' land mine. All he needed was something to digest, as if last night's event were a sour, rotting pill on his tongue that he could only swallow down with something warm. It took him a moment to find a suspiciously clean cloud of smoke rise up behind some wagons, most of them still intact, luckily. 

Dragging himself to where he thought a field kitchen must be stationed, he was more than just relieved to see a cook stir a slimy, brown-ish whatever-in-God's-name-it-was. He had to control himself from shouting as if this was some sort of victory, as if he had just won the battle. He hadn't, but at least the battle against his hunger would be won soon. With heavy footsteps he walked over to where a man, about his height, stirred his creation slowly with tired arms. Without waiting much longer, the Shelby came up to him, holding out his bowl, looking into the man's eyes. 

The field cook had a beard, short hair that was all over the place, and hard eyes filled with such mercy and compassion that Thomas had trouble finding words. He must have been about his age, if only a little older. A moment passed before the brunet croaked out what he wanted. "Some soup--" he began, stammering on his words for a moment. He hadn't felt such a calm presence in what felt like years, eyes patient that somehow told him that even if everything was absolutely going to shite, they would still survive. The way this presence hit him was unexpected, to say the least, yet so very welcomed. "please." He added, quickly. Some polite words were the least he could do, for this man, exhausted and sleepless but working like a holy man to feed the soldiers. Looking at his uniform, it became clear that he was a Captain. Thomas swallowed, nodding his head. This field cook was like a damned saint indeed. 

He had never been this affected simply by the aura and anima someone radiated, but between death and life; between the trenches and solid ground, between this moment and the next-- it gave him courage. Perhaps it wasn't about win or loss for him anymore, perhaps it was about surviving while doing the best he could. After all that he has seen, winning would be nothing to him.

* * *

The line for food had grown throughout the morning. It seemed not even trauma was enough to shake the bitter grasp of hunger in the end. Most of the men didn’t speak, just held their bowls out with vacant stares and trembling hands. Maybe Alfie was to blame for it, he reasoned. He was well known for his temper, just because he felt benevolent today, did not mean he was going to be going soft on the lot of them. 

By mid-morning the pot’s content was waning, and he was exhausted. A few more bowls’ worth was left in there, and then it’d be back to scrubbing the shit out and trying to find a way to make more food for supper. He didn’t know where he’d find anything. Didn’t want to think on it, either. The men relied upon him, but even he being such as he was, was still a man. Still fallible. He’d do his best, but there wasn’t much more to be expected.

Stomach growling in hunger, Tommy continued to look at the Captain. The man appeared to need a moment to gather his thoughts; undoubtedly just as much in thought as those of them that were left. It was when the male's gaze met his for longer than usually comfortable that he shifted on his feet, looking at his dirtied fingertips self-consciously when he knew the field cook was about to complain about them. 

Alfie didn’t glance up when another hungry mouth came through his line, but the filth covering the hand that proffered the bowl towards him did take his attention. He always insisted his soldiers come to claim their meals clean and washed -- at least so far as their hands. Last thing he needed was some fucking dysintary outbreak in the camp. Allowances were made for their traumas but some things were simply unacceptable. “Mate, your please doesn’t fucking -- “ 

"I apologize, Captain," he stated, voice polite and clear. He wasn't a mindless sheep to his superiors, but on this morning, he could grant this angel of a cook the respect that was expected. 

Alfie paused, struck suddenly when he found the face of the man. Words escaped him as he felt almost hypnotized by the blue of the other man’s eyes. He didn’t think he’d ever seen such a color, he thought. Not even before all this carnage, not in any art or misty winter’s night had he ever gazed upon such a fucking stunning shade of blue. 

It took Alfie a full few moments to recover his thoughts, at which point he stammered over his words, turning the sound into a gruff mutter. To look the man over, it was clear why he was filthy. “You’re one of them tunnelers,” he spoke, more for himself than to the man. He was lean, nearly gaunt -- and little too, Alfie thought. It wasn’t any wonder he’d gotten the assignment. This man was a right hero, he was. Reaching deep down into his pot he scooped up some of the reeking sludge (though it was nothing compared to the stench in the air,) and poured it into the bowl. 

Regardless, the bearded man appeared to forget his words quickly, scooping up soup for him. Thomas' gaze followed his arms, down to his hands, to his fingers. His arms were pretty. They looked linear and finely muscled from his work with liddle and gun alike. His own were broad and roughly muscled, even his fingers. It was no wonder, really, all he did was dig tunnels, crawling on all fours. 

Setting the ladle down then, he continued to stare, practically hypnotized. “There’s no more bread,” he confessed, hand raising to scratch at his beard in deep thought. As if suddenly struck by the idea, he turned -- stepping back and gesturing behind his station where he had his own cushion sat up in the shape of a chair. To call it a cushion was an overestimation, but he’d managed enough to make something comfortable for himself. In truth it was a torn blanket stuffed carefully with leaves and other bits and bobs of wasted material. “Why don’t you take a comfortable seat,” he offered in exchange. “Certainly after being in those damned tunnels your body could use it.”

The truth of it was, he wasn’t quite ready to be parted from those eyes. It wasn’t his place to be offering special treatment to any man, but if anything was going to make Alfie Solomons look like a fucking hypocrite, it was going to be he himself, and he alone.

Thomas decided that he liked them, for some reason, akin to the men's merciful eyes they radiated a peaceful calm. Hard and strict, but calm. He himself was like a sandstorm, often prickly and long-lasting and intense. Especially now, he quietly appreciated his presence. The brunet actually had to suppress a smile when he was gestured to sit down, although the cook was of a much higher rank than he was. 

"Thank you, Captain." He murmured, now, looking down at the bowl in his hands as he moved to accept the offer. It was naïve to deny a comfortable seat in this situation. The bright, broody sky made the stew swishing in the tin bowl reflect his muddy face like a mirror, showing him both darkness and light. He felt seen, then, seen by someone. Whatever his name was, he was sure that this man would stay in his memory. 

"The name's Shelby. Thomas Shelby," he exclaimed, looking up at the male, mustering him from head to toe. The other’s hands were calloused and slightly stained with what must be their meal, his apron was muddy, bloody, and ripped. He had a towel over his shoulder and there was a shift on his feet that avoided putting too much weight on his knee. He was interesting. He was different from the rest, that much was clear. 

Giving him a nod, however, a motion of respect by Alfie’s standards, he straightened his posture long enough to give perfunctory salute. “Captain Solomons.” First names weren’t befitting a man of his position, no matter how badly those beautiful blue eyes made him want to spill all his secrets. 

“You’re a much braver man than I am, Thomas.” Alfie remarked, a gruff grit to his voice as he leveraged himself back against the cook-station for support. “You put the likes of me down in them tunnels and I’d probably end up a blathering mess, praying for God himself to come down from on high and take my soul then and there, sparing me the damnation I’m due.” Both eyebrows had risen as he spoke, and a hand stayed contemplatively stroking his beard. Studying the man a bit more, a hint of a smile found his chapped lips. “Claustrophobic, you see. Small spaces and myself don’t rightly agree.” 

Taking the first sip of his stew and stretching out his legs, he looked at the captain, mustering him once more. It made him wonder, where he took his patience from, his calm. Especially due to the fact that around them, nearly everyone, including some darker parts of himself, were in the process of going fuckin' bonkers. 

"Even without phobia, we lose our minds, inwardly. You have to be quiet so you hear the quiet ploughing-- tut, tut, tut," he explained, tapping his finger against the bowl to imitate the noise. "That is the enemy digging. We didn't hear them this time." Thomas sourly stated, taking another sip. The brew tasted like fat, dirt, burnt bread and hints of herbs. It could have been worse, despite its foul smell. 

Alfie nodded along, watching the man speak, mesmerized by him. He couldn’t quite find the right word to describe the quality the man possessed. It was somewhere between a fire so hot it froze you to look at it, and complete and utter haunting. He knew the thoughts that were dancing at the fringes of his mind were anything but appropriate, but what was kept to the privacy of his thoughts were his own to imagine. 

"A boy got the shakes minutes before, we were stressed, we got loud. It was shit." Tommy reasoned, nodding to himself. Shit it was, indeed. He looked at the other man again, finding himself ensnared by that calm presence, something he hadn't realized he required. 

“Takes a certain kind of man to do what you do, Thomas,” Alfie remarked ponderously, his arms crossed over his chest where he stood leaning. Where he stood regarding the other man. “I can’t imagine the sheer magnitude of your endurance and willpower to keep sane down there. Only God himself knows how you manage it -- “ He wished he still had a stash of his own distillation around. The man could clearly use it, hell he could use it too. 

"Captain Solomons, it's a pleasure to meet you." He said, nodding once more and putting two fingers to his forehead before continuing to eat the stew. The praise felt off to him, like a bittersweet notion of comfort by a stranger when he has just lost everything. He knew that what he did was far from easy and very different to what the average Private did, nerve-wrecking and difficult in ways near unimaginable, but nodding off such compliments simply felt false. This was war, they were all scared shitless, there was no space for praise for these godless acts. Looking up at his superior again, he carried on eating, letting the comfort of Alfie’s presence seep into his skin like much needed sun. It felt like a remedy for most of his problems in that moment, that godforsaken gutter juice and Captain Solomons. 

Alfie made a sound in response, half laugh, half harumph. It was fuckin ridiculous how he was behaving, he realized it -- he really did. Imagine it, a man of his stature going full schoolgirl over a man just because he had pretty eyes. Covering for his embarrassment by rubbing at his nose, he glanced off towards the still rising sun. It was going to be light soon, the sun would get hot enough -- and with it his new found amiability would surely melt away. And Thomas, he imagined, would be back to the tunnels, returning to the earth -- possibly never to be gazed upon by the eyes of Alfie Solomons again. Fuck. He thought to himself with a sharp inhale.

Words -- words you see, they were a thing Alfie didn’t have use for. He was a man of action and deep thought, not pleasantries and social niceties. Sitting here with this man he’d never felt more inept. He needed a distraction, he realized, and one came -- by God it came as if his own personal miracle. “Excuse me a moment, Thomas -- “ Alfie spoke, turning to round his kitchen and stalk towards a gathering of men who murmured and glanced their way.

Looking down at the sorry excuse for a mirror, imitated by a battered tin bowl, Tommy nodded to acknowledge Alfie’s short absence. What was he doing, feeling this comforted and content in the presence of a superior? Of course it was necessary to feel safe around them, to obey their commands, but what he felt truly wasn’t something he should be feeling around a Captain. He wasn’t his personal guard and yet -- here he was, swooning about him. Thomas hadn’t even noticed the group of inferior soldiers murmur and glancing at them, had been that distracted by Alfie Solomons. He looked at the man’s walking form, at the back of his head, unsure what would happen now.

“You got something to say?” Alfie spoke boldly as he came upon the men. At once three of them scattered like roaches exposed to too bright of a light -- but the other three stood their ground. One lowered his eyes, another coughed but they weren’t the concern. Alfie’s chin raised in challenge to the one who stared him down. “I said -- have you got something to say, corporal?” 

The man snuffed something up, and spat, narrowly missing Alfie’s shoes. The rage Alfie had been withholding for sake of the trauma they’d all experienced began to once more simmer. “I said it’s a right fucking joke, you preaching your rules to us alls and there you got a man sitting on that shitstained throne of yours like ‘e’s the bloody king of England.” 

Alfie nodded, as if giving the man creedance for his thoughts, but it was a dangerous sort of thing that bubbled beneath his calm exterior. “That man? That man there?” Alfie spoke with a calculated tone -- pointing towards Thomas. “That man is a fucking tool of the almighty. Do you know what that man does?” He asked, standing so close now that his nose practically brushed the others -- “DO YOU?” He shouted, his voice boomed, like a fiery hot explosion.

Immediately the two other men fled, leaving Alfie alone with the defiant little prick who thought he was important enough to question his captain. “He’s a fucking tunneler. He’s on his hands and knees day in and day out digging so we can fucking sit up here in our fresh air and fight a war -- he’s risking his life every second of every fucking day -- “ Alfie continued, voice booming. He would not tolerate this measure of disrespect, and he most certainly would not tolerate criticisms of his command. “If I want to bestow the fucking honor of a nice place to sit to a man who very well could have given his life for mine not hours ago, I FUCKING WILL.” 

Eyebrows shooting up in a quiet notion of surprise, he watched Alfie downright terrorize that little Corporal. Again, the tunneler winced inwardly at the crass phrasing. What people said about silent waters were right, seemingly, but the brunet found himself even more infatuated. The authority he radiated, along with his attitude, struck him. Taking another gulp of the stew in his bowl, he observed the events before him. He could get up to try and make the man calm down, maybe find a compromise for both sides, but shook the thought off. It wasn’t smart to try and calm someone whose reactions he couldn’t quite estimate down, there was a good chance he’d add fuel to the fire and burn his fuckin’ fingers off. 

The soldier spoke no further, he murmured an apology, cast a furtive glance towards Tommy and moved away, leaving his captain breathing in deep and angry heaves that moved his chest and back in a motion like a wave. It took a few moments for Alfie’s anger to simmer -- but it did simmer. Alfie’s temper burned hot and bright but it burned out quick as it lit. Letting out a sigh he straightened his apron and turned back towards his guest. “You’ll have to forgive the men. They forget their place,” he spoke plainly, as if nothing at all had just happened. 

“Ah, yeah.” Tommy only replied, nodding yet again to imply agreement. It seemed that while the bearded man appeared still and harmlessly friendly as a sheep when he spoke normally, he could blow up like a grenade in mere seconds. Thomas noted this down in the back of his mind, believing that it would help assess situations much better, at some point. If it ever got to that, he thought, they could die. They could be divided, reassigned to different locations in mere days; once the field marshal in charge found out about the casualties. 

“The mud began getting a little wetter by the end of our dig, there was the sound of water rushin’, there’s a good chance we’ve got at least a beck towards the south east side of the camp. The collision shouldn’t have reached that far, perhaps you’ll find some herbs, fish or crabs and whatnot for your brew,” Thomas said, head gesturing towards the specific direction, before pointing at the huge pot that appeared nearly empty. “It must be difficult enough to find something.” He carried on, finishing up his own portion. He felt better now, eating, talking and moving, breathing fresh air. Now he had to wait for command of his assigned commander, Henry Hance, what was to be done. 

“The men know the contents of the pot are not to be discussed -- “ Alfie remarked, voice almost wry, but just falling a hair short of it. He wasn't a man of humor -- and if he were, no one would likely be able to tell his humor from his candor. “What goes in that fucking pot is for me and God to know -- but you’re not wrong, Thomas. Some days even I cringe thinkin’ about the filth we’re forced to swallow for the sake of the fucking crown and all her affairs. “ Alfie continued on, but he did give a faint little nod in acknowledgement of Thomas’ advice, gaze briefly traveling in the direction indicated. “Can’t rightly say that I think we’ll find much of anything worth the trip, much as I appreciate you sayin’ it -- “ pausing to reflect, Alfie shrugged and resumed his position leaning against the station he spent his every waking hour behind it felt like. “But if it gets me away from this fucking stench…” 

The thought seemed to get lost to the breeze, which carried with it the foul odor of rot and burned meat -- and Alfie grimaced against the flashes of carnage that danced across his memory. “How long before you’re back below?” He asked, gaze now intently fixed upon Thomas’ once more. It was meant to be a casual question -- in truth it ought to have been. For all this attention was worth the chances of him ever seeing this Thomas Shelby again were slim to none. But there was nothing casual in the way he felt. A man was still a man even when he was thrown out into a battle and told to fight or die. A man still had needs and carnal longings, and Alfie Solomons was no exception. Only it wasn’t until this time that he felt the baser human needs become so difficult to ignore. The men in the camp knew what he was. Most of them kept their gaze down, murmured to each other about Captain Solomons the sodomite -- but there were those who met his eyes. Those who also knew the pleasure of another man’s company -- yet not a fucking one of them looked like Thomas Shelby. And if he were truthful, the calluses of his hand were getting more and more uncomfortable -- and a hand would never compare to the real thing.

"In all honesty? I have no idea. My commander could've been blown up just like any other man here, I have to wait until they finished the countings. That's when the superiors plan what we're supposed to do next," Tommy shrugged, kicking away a pebble from beside his boots. "If the tunnel has collapsed then they'll make us find a new route. A new passage to dig. If it hasn't then I'm back in there." He finished, setting his metal bowl aside. Fully aware of the fact that he had his own, resting by his backpack, in one of the trenches-- where they slept. However, he had been too tired to search for his and this one looked like it was missed by no one, didn't it? 

It made Thomas huff out of discomfort, sinking lower in his seat. Any other job could've done it, any of them, he would've done it without question. But this? He hadn't even done a job like this before back in England for underground water tubes and whatnot, yet it was supposed to be the requirement. 

Alfie honestly began to let his mind wander as his gaze fell to Thomas’ lips, watching them move as the man spoke in that voice of his -- so low and rumbling. Like distant thunder, Alfie thought -- calm but ominous. He stared shamelessly (being that he was a man what had never known shame to begin with -- ) his imagination doing fantastic and sinful things within a fantasy -- it was a right shame they had to part. A right fucking shame indeed.

Trying to shake off these intruding thoughts with rubs to the temples, Tommy closed his eyes briefly. Then, he looked back up at Alfie, and how the man gazed at him. Thomas knew this kind of gaze, he wasn't blind or completely stupid. Captain Solomons, that one pretty field cook, he had to admit, truly-- was staring at his lips and then at his eyes and back. No, Alfie Solomons was looking at him like he was his own personal saint, in ways that couldn't be chalked up to mere respect for what he did. 

Thomas Shelby actually had to smile now, softly and not exactly visible, but it was there. A twitch of the corners of his mouth. Now, he had to confess to himself, he hadn't been much for male individuals in the past, he used to have a girl before the war. Looking up at Alfie like that, he thought, maybe it wasn't so bad. Tommy thought, this couldn't be just a consequence of his abandoned desires. His feelings and understandings had been as pure as they could be in this fuckin' butchery when he first found himself ensnared by that Solomons and he found it right up disrespectful of those who had this preference permanently-- to say it was just something that occured when one didn't have a girl. Whatever he was, he wasn't tasteless and rude like that. And he thought that, no, he wasn't tasteless at all, with another twitch of his mouth as he looked at Alfie, that pretty captain. 

Realizing a mite too late that he’d not yet responded to the man, Alfie drew in a deep breath and grumbled it back out, scratching at the back of his neck. It took no small measure of willpower to fight back those salacious fantasies he’d just been imagining, but now was definitely not the place. For all he knew the man wouldn’t even be interested. It wasn’t as if Alfie was in the habit of pursuing those who did not share his proclivities, after all. 

“Right, right.” He nodded, as if he truly knew to what he was remarking. Whatever Thomas had said was now long gone from the cook’s mind. “Well -- “ he began, almost as if he were coming up with the words as they slowly spilled up. “So long as you’re here, the chair’s yours. Creature comforts and all that.” He nodded, eyes wandering away now, admonishing every sinful thought that crept back up into his mind. “All the likes of us can ask for in a time like this, innit?”

The Shelby nodded, sitting straight once more when their gazing was interrupted by conversation once more. “I’m grateful you’ve offered it to me, but you need to sit down as well, captain,” he began, getting up to stretch his limbs properly. He truly felt better, now.   
“You must’ve been on your feet for hours on end, and what use is a cook that’s immobile?” Thomas asked with that twitch at the corners of his mouth again, motioning for Solomons to sit down. Focusing on the sky again, his apprehension of his well-being reflected itself right there: the first rays of sunlight broke through the cold, gray clouds and morning dew began settling on the plants that hadn’t been affected by the detonation last night. 

“I may be older than these young spry fools around me, but I’m plenty hardy -- “ Alfie assured him, not taking the offer of the chair. Truth was once he sat it was the getting up he found so difficult. Comfort would made a man weak, if he let it. There was a danger in giving in to the finer things when the grit and grime was all there was otherwise. No -- Alfie would not sit. But he gave the man a ghost of a smile all the same.

Tommy couldn’t say he looked forward to this day, he truly couldn’t, but he thought that perhaps-- today would be relatively uneventful, maybe no one would be seriously harmed today. His brothers were still alive, he would’ve been notified even hundreds of miles away. Things were miserable, but not as miserable as they could be for him personally. Who was he to complain anyways, now that he had certainly found quite the interesting individual to converse with. “I have friends that I need to check on-- came out the tunnels with me yesterday night. I’ll send them over to get their soup once I’ve got them on their feet, yes?” The brunet asked, waiting for confirmation as he ran a hand through his dirty and messy hair. What he would give for a proper bath now. It would be his turn in the makeshift bath house in two days; a building that used to be a brewery now used its huge pools for every man’s hygiene. 

“Of course. I can’t much speak to what’s left, but no man leaves my camp hungry,” Alfie assured his companion with somber nod. He’d thin out the last of it if the need arose. He might not be known for his compassion, patience, or small mercies but he’d be damned if he let a man go hungry where he could prevent it. He couldn’t deny a disappointment, a visceral and grotesque feeling, it was -- sinking and slithering into his gut, like some great beast with needling claws, and a hunger no meal could sate. Knowing that their time was shorter than ever, the sensation only amplified; and briefly Alfie wondered if he’d scared the man away with his staring. Wouldn’t that be just like him, eh? Never had been too good at subtlety, he mused.

“It was a pleasure to meet you,” Tommy said, extending his hand. He had that thing which could almost be a smile on his face again, peering at the man once more, from head to toe. He was truly handsome, he had to note, somewhat new to these thoughts after all. “A pleasure indeed,” he repeated, moreso to himself, but left the meaning it put out into the open like a meal served on a silver platter unelaborated. Focusing on his shoes now, for just a brief moment, he realized how the air around him appeared to sizzle with electricity, subtle smiles and references to things he hadn’t thought possible in their situation. Had never even considered finding someone this appealing during wartime but he had to think-- maybe it would do him good, this way he had something-- and someone-- to think of when he wanted to be distracted. This way he wasn’t even forced to resort to tattling like others had been. 

Alfie took the offered hand in a firm grip -- finding the other just as callous as his own. Rough and dry, cracked in their own ways from the mud and the minerals and God only knew what else -- but still; much the same. While his hand kept the grip tightly between them, his eyes lingered upon Thomas’. He wanted to remember them. Remember that angelic shade of blue the likes of which would cause even the skies themselves to weep with envy. “Behatzlah’a, Thomas.” He spoke with an odd sort of conviction -- gaze boring into the other man’s. “Shalom.”

It took Tommy a moment to realize what language Alfie was speaking, before he nodded in an attempt to return the sentiment. He didn’t exactly believe in God anymore, not after this war, but he knew that religion was something to be honoured and respected-- he grew up catholic after all-- and in the end, found it to be a necessary thing. Belief was what all of them here needed, no matter what it was they believed in. Frankly, he was unsure if it was his place to say it, but he did: “Shalom, Captain Solomons. Thank you.” With another nod, he let that callous yet warm hand go. Not being able to help himself, he looked back at the field cook when he left. No matter what would happen to them now, he wouldn’t forget him. And if he saw him again, then there would be more that he already promised himself not to forget, either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will they meet again? Stay tuned.


End file.
